On this Night
by TinyStar
Summary: [Standalone] Abby and Carter talk things through. Takes up from episodes 10.10 and 10.11


**Title: _On this Night_**

**Spoilers:** _Episodes 10.10/10.11. I haven't read any for episodes yet to be shown. This is my 'resolution' to the Carter/Kem/baby storyline. Any similarity to spoilers is unintended, I have absolutely no idea how TPTB will resolve this one :)_

**Disclaimer:** _Nope, not mine. Much as I'd like to profit from this I'm not!_

**Author's Note:** _Not too much to say – this is from Abby's POV and as always feedback good or bad is much appreciated._  

+++++++++++++

She was lost again.  
  
This time, though, she was on her own.  
  
It was a melancholy Christmas, begun as a descending anticlimax and ending with empty despair. She'd wondered if her future lay buried at the end of her crystalline wineglass, drowning somewhere in a sea of sweet vinegar or if the swirling liquid below could possibly hold some redemption for her failures. Either way she'd drink it, allow it to burn and hope that morning would claim her soon.  
  
Waking up was to a dusky shade of red, the glass on its side on the table, but drawing the curtains revealed nightfall in all its dark glory, the sky clad in leather black ferocity yawning wide to expel tiny flakes of snow; like lost stars falling slowly to earth.  
  
No noise just silence, no heat just a fiery coldness. The streets below held no hidden mysteries, static and peaceful as no one marked the cotton snow. Her arms wrapped themselves around her body, swaddling clothes by all accounts, and she stood hazily in moonlight loneliness. Her gaze flickered in the window and she wondered if anyone else was awake at all, if anyone else even noticed her trapped behind the cold glass.   
  
A small figure, a sleeping city, a night she wishes she could forget.  
  
But she knows she can never rebel, because if she does he'll never notice, not until she's gone. And she doesn't want to go; she just wishes he would hold her – from time to time.

+++++++++++++

He has that look in his eye; that stubborn, chivalrous, well-meaning look and though she thinks that she's past caring she finds herself wondering what he wants. She doesn't move, just observes and waits. It's busy. Waiters, waitresses, trays and plates. He's taking his time.  
  
"Do you want a drink?"  
  
"No." She turns away, faces the wall.  
  
He's nonplussed, or at least pretends to be, slides his long limbs gently into the seat. They fit perfectly in the booth – his feet almost against hers, touching but not quite. It's those things she notices, those differences; his strong arms against her thin wrists, his wide chest cuddling her small form and ultimately his pleasure as she struggles to overcome her pain.  
  
Can't he see? Perhaps he really can't, but she doesn't feel like talking. Love is blind, she tells herself. He is in love, but not with her. He can't see.  
  
He orders her a coke anyway, and they sit, stare at each other over red and white striped straws. She watches as the liquid swirls; he takes his cue as the ice melts. She stands to leave.  
  
"No, wait." He reaches out – strong fingers; her thin wrists. She pauses, pulls her arm away.  
  
"Please." He looks away. She's confused, afraid to wonder why he came, why he chose to sit beside her.  
  
She wants him to leave. She needs to think. She doesn't want to talk to him, doesn't want to look at him. He hurts her by his gentleness, scalds her with his kindness. She doesn't understand why everything has changed, why niceties and pleasant sentences are all that exist when she wants so badly to scream at him. She wants him to explain it to her so that she can walk away, leave him behind.  
  
He shifts in his seat. She sits back down, but doesn't speak.   
  
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the picture. She stares at her hands. He presses it towards her. She takes it and holds it, looks at it, unsure of how to feel.  
  
"Congratulations." She whispers, though she knows she has told him this previously. Her voice is soft, raw, but her face holds no expression. Why this? Why show her this? He is blind, she tells herself, love is blind. He doesn't see her chest heave slightly, or hear the emotion caught acidly in the back of her throat.   
  
"It's a boy." She nods, and for a second he feels stupid – she was an OB nurse. She's biting her lip, and he realises she wants to say something. She's struggling, blinking. She still holds the picture, caught in a grip of white, trembling fingers.  
  
"Why – " She falters. Why this? Why here? How can he break her heart? How can he rub salt in her bloodied skin?  
  
It was one night so long ago that he had first erupted into her life. She'd seen that they were different even then; two people bound to disagree bound to clash. They'd been caught from the word go – two strong willed forces facing off in a stifling room. He'd screamed at her; she'd done it for his own good. He'd put her down; she'd stood her ground. They ignored each other, and then by some strange hand of god it was in a place like this one, over a milkshake, that she'd realised that they were both the same.   
  
She wishes she could go back to that place. She doesn't know how, or why. She doesn't even want to forgive him, but she wants him back. She loves him, but she knows her love, unconditional as it is, isn't enough. He must love her back, and this, she has come to realise is not to be.  
  
She swallows. "Why - "   
  
"He's not mine." He meets her directly in the eye. She doesn't move. He moves.  
  
He stands to leave. She doesn't stop him. She's too shocked. He pauses, waits for her to reach out her hand, to tell him its okay. But she doesn't. Maybe he expects comfort, but she knows she can't give it to him. She looks away, wondering. He pulls back. The door slams. She's alone.  
  
She gazes at the picture; black and white like strong and thin. She twists it around in her fingers, places it down on the table. He's gone. He's left a part of his life behind. He's left it behind with her, in her hands. She stares at the photograph.   
  
It's not hers to take. It's no longer his to give.  
  
She knows she'll bring it back to him that night.  
  
Her coke is flat. She doesn't know what to think, but she thinks she understands why he came to her. His eyes spoke not of pleasure, nor of blindness.  
  
Him and her - they are the same.

+++++++++++++

It's a night like no other, she tells herself. Snowing tiny silky crystals on a sky streaked with grey. But the moon is full, not covered with cloud. She finds it not unusual, more unsettling.

It's in her hand; this small piece of paper, this child that had hurt her because it was his and not hers. Now it's a memory belonging in full to somebody else. Not him, not her, not them.  Crumpled, stained with white flakes, but a baby nonetheless. Her gloved hand shakes. She finds herself unable to put it in her pocket, her eyes refuse to budge from the perfectly formed fingers or the tiny, fragile toes.

And she feels his loss. He doesn't realise it, but she does. He trusted himself to come to her. Her watch reads two a.m. She's been walking around for hours. Does he expect her to come? She wonders, but though she's passed his door more than twice she can't bring herself to knock.

She can't comfort him. She can't explain that loss feels the same, no matter its cause. He doesn't know, she can't tell him. She wishes he were there to hold her, but more than that she wishes that she could comfort him. She's afraid. They're teetering, balancing on the edge of a steep slope.

She doesn't want to lose him.

Deep down she feels that she already has.

She climbs the steps once more, pushes the key into the lock. The same cheerful clutter greets her, last nights wine glass still upturned. A half empty bottle winks from beside the sink, turning she carefully picks it up, caressing the neck. It has no place in her life. She holds it upside down and watches, taking release from the red liquid as it flows down the drain. Then she listens to the sound of shattering glass as the bottle hits the metal of the bin. Broken.

The room is lit by three a.m darkness. She collapses on the sofa, pausing to remove only her gloves. Her fingers spasm as blood rushes through dilating veins, but she doesn't care. She's alive.

+++++++++++++

Minutes pass, like hours in their intensity; soft subtle ticking of seconds to some inevitable end. She's decided that nothing bears thinking about, because in that moment there is nothing – her and a battered scan photograph lying tossed on the seat beside her. She still cannot stop looking at it.

The knock on the door forces clarity. She almost doesn't answer. She doesn't want pity nor does she feel the urge to give directions to a lost pizza delivery man. Then the knock comes again, and against whatever judgement she thinks she has left, she opens the door.

He stands about two steps back, face haggard, eyes pleading.

"It's three o'clock in the morning." She tries to accuse him, but her tone falls flat revealing nothing but naked vulnerability, the sort she desperately wants to hide.

"I know." He is unapologetic and she curses herself for the momentary lapse in her carefully constructed façade. She lets him in. She doesn't know why, but she does. Perhaps it's out of habit, or maybe its because she has come to terms with the obvious fact that neither of them wish to be alone. Not tonight.

"I saw you, you know. Walking round. You passed my door four times. When you didn't come by again I figured I'd come here." He shrugs. She's been crying. He can tell. Her eyes shine too brightly, her cheeks are red as though scalded by caustic tears. She's trying to be strong and he doesn't know why.

He's staring and she feels suddenly self conscious. She closes the door and slides slowly away from him, her back against wall. His gaze doesn't move. She brings her hand to her hot cheek and rubs it slowly. Her hand is damp. She realises that she's been crying. He can tell. Both hands shield her eyes and claw vigourously at flushed cheeks as she scurries away. She sits down on the couch with her back to him. He can follow if he wants. Her dry throat allows no speech.   

He spies it before he sits down and picks it up, sighing. Five tiny fingers and five tiny toes. He replays the scene over and over in his mind and when he opens his eyes he is still standing there, white nailed in a cold room with nothing – himself and a torn photograph. And her.

"Is that why you came here?" She stands behind, nodding ever so slightly at the photograph. 

"No." He places it back down. She picks it up and tucks it in his pocket.

"Then why?"

"I don't know."

"Then go." Her tone is rough, her eyes hard, piercing silver bullets. She's had enough. There's too much here, too much for her to process. She can't think straight. The static in the room is unbearable and even if he were to offer some sort of explanation she's too afraid to hear it, too afraid to let him back into her life, too afraid of what she might say in retaliation. 

She doesn't want him to go. Not really. So he stays. She offers no resistance as he sits down, merely looks away. He understands her better than she'll acknowledge, better than she'll allow herself to believe.

"I'm not walking away this time." He's choosing his words carefully, not intending them to hurt her but they do all the same. She sees his back, his long strides and the distance between them; an ocean, though if she's honest she'll admit that she feels the distance a lot more than she remembers it, both then and now.

"It wasn't meant to happen like this. I guess in some twisted sense I though I could take a time out, come back and you'd be waiting and we could sort things out. That's how selfish I am. It wasn't a case of you or her. It was me. It was all about me. I didn't think… and I'm sorry."

Her lips tremble. She's cold on the outside, even colder in her heart. Why is he explaining this to her? Why is she even listening? She's weak in his presence, but she gives him no reaction. He'll talk, she'll listen for a time at least.

"Then she told me she was pregnant. I couldn't leave then. I didn't want to leave. It was unexpected, not something we'd discussed, but the more I thought about it, the more I grew to like the idea. It was exciting, you know. Somedays it was a boy, and I saw myself teaching him baseball and cheering as he scored a home run. Other days I was waving my daughter off to her prom… It was meant to be short term, honestly, I didn't see myself as becoming a father - ….. almost becoming a father."

The correction hanging in the air is heartbreaking. Almost a father, almost a mother. Two halves of the same whole. She's convinced herself that she would be useless as a mother, but even that fails to dampen her sense of loss, of grief. Her gut twists inwards, her mind heavy with unspoken words. She wants to shout at him, but she can't. All she feels is empathy. She understands and that's why she can't be angry. That's why she can't talk, why she can only nod and agree and she hates herself for it. For this. For letting him talk, for hearing him out. 

"Say something. Please say something. Are you angry? I know you're angry." He's run out of things to say. She's not being forthcoming. He stares at her face, but she gives away nothing. Expressionless. She knows that with one look he can tell how she's feeling, so she casts her eyes downwards, silently begging for him to look away.

"No." 

She stops.

 "Yes. I was." Her voice is cracking, and she's trying so hard to remain calm. She wants to scream, yell but she's biting her lip, concentrating on the dialogue. 

"I've been thinking.. over-analyzing. I made some pretty stupid moves. You know I wanted to shock you, to issue you with some sort of ultimatum.. I know I gave you your stuff back, but I never thought you'd be going away again. I thought you were such a jerk for leaving the first time… I guess I'd kind of hoped you'd come over and talk to me when you found the bag. It never occurred to me that you wouldn't.. And then you met her and wrote that letter."

"I wrote that letter before I met her."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

She slides her feet carefully out of her shoes and tucks them underneath her body. They're numb and wet. She brushes back the saturated tendrils of hair that stick to the sides of her face. It's a small, but needed gap in the conversation. He's still observing her as she appears to process his words before continuing. He'll interrupt, but only when necessary. It's her turn to talk.      

"We really had it all, didn't we?.. For the bottom to fall out of everything just like that… I … I wasn't angry.. I was hurt, Carter.. I didn't know who I was, who you were. I thought I could judge people, choose the right ones to be with and not get hurt.. I was so sure.. and then I was wrong.."

Sharp, sighing breaths escape her throat and she fights to control the turbulent wave of pent up emotion that threatens to overcome her. But stoic as ever she bottles it up, and looks at her hands.

"We were going to get married… and I was wrong…"

He stares, for a split second confused, shocked. She couldn't think… She doesn't know..

"I never asked you to marry me."

She sniffs, and looks at him intensely. In the hazy glow of the morning light her eyes melt into chocolate pools so soft he could drown in their mesmerizing depths. Shimmering tear drops streak gently across the tender blush of delicate cheeks. She is sad and in her sadness she is truly beautiful. He feels his chest tighten. Suddenly she is so small that he wishes he could pick her up and hold her in his arms. 

When she finally speaks it is in hushed tones, the melancholy sound of surrender, as though something somewhere inside her tiny frame has finally clicked and she has given up.

"That's right." She whispers, "You didn't… I found the ring in your pocket…" 

In the silence he hears the pattering of rain on the window pane; his heart shattering into a million sharp pieces lost in the cracks of her floor.

"You bought out a restaurant, hired a band.. It was perfect… and then you realised you didn't want me. "

She remains perfectly composed, uttering the words with the solemnity of ordering a meal at a sophisticated café. Her logic is sound; at least she believes so; there is no room for other opinions, other possibilities. She's thought it out, teased it out with tears and pain. There is no room left for emotion, just apathy, tiredness as though realisation has drained every bodily resource she has left.

And maybe, he wonders, this was where it all fell apart. His face clouds, his expression darkens as her mistake reaches him and though he tries to rectify it he doesn't know if he can quite convince her, if what they had can be saved, a friendship bottled for future years.

"It was me.. not you, me and I always wanted you.."

His words are rushed, jumbled into some sort of missense and he sighs in frustration as he delves deep inside him for the right phrases, the right connections to explain to her. The words are there, ready, waiting but he struggles to say them. He knows that in a time like this mind-reading counts for nothing, still he hopes against hope that she sees the desperation that cuts him right down to his very soul.

"You'd been married before. I didn't know if you wanted commitment…. if you wanted me.. I tried to test the water, then.. then I suppose I lost my nerve. I never meant to hurt you.. I swear I didn't… and I know it's too late and I should never have come here but I wanted to explain… apologise – "

"It's okay."

"What?"

"It's okay."

She leans back against a cushion and closes her eyes. It's in some distant future, many light years away that she has pictured them having this conversation; not here, but he seems to be dealing with things, moving on, trying to make amends and she feels that she should too – build bridges. Maybe they'll never get back to where they were, but she's trapped, hemmed in by the fact that she can never hate him. Slowly she sits back up and turns so that she looks him directly in the eye.

"Do you love her?"

He freezes.

"I… I grew to love her. But.. not enough. Not enough to want to stay with her when I found out that she was lying.."  

It's those little things; those little sentences that slip out unannounced and unexpected that catch a person off-guard. An iron weight lifts and her mind explodes with flashes of remembrance – the Lava Lounge, the Girls night out and his face; his face when he discovered that she'd been drinking. He stayed. He had stayed. She had lied to him and he had stayed. He had stayed for her, with her.

It's hardly the same, but yet everything seems clearer. Her head once tired and sore bursts with vibrant colour and hue. Hope, plain and simple. Their relationship, once damaged beyond repair is suddenly living breathing, viable. 

He yawns, and shifts uncomfortably on the couch. It's late. A silence falls, but not one tainted with awkwardness. It is a gentle silence, lit by the faint glow of shared epiphany, a beautiful sigh of relief; a haunting silence crawling slowly across skin as a once simmering bitter ending dissipates. They are saved.

He stands to leave. He already wears his coat; he never took it off. She doesn't stop him. He pauses, waits for her to speak. This time she reaches out a hand, slips it into his. He squeezes it tenderly, reminding her of the days of old. She looks at him. They both look down. She realises that they are both staring at their joined hands. 

"Stay," she asks him, "It's late, you can sleep on the couch."

His initial instinct is to refuse, out of some archaic code of chivalry or some grand gesture of nobility. But even he realises that the days of knights and castles are over – this is now, and a pair of shining eyes patiently await an answer.

He nods and she reaches for his coat.

+++++++++++++

The morning is quiet in its majesty - much like them, she muses; they had never needed grand gestures. Her nose presses against the window, but for once she's content to wake up trapped behind the cold glass.

She watches the sun rise, spreading slow stalks of light along nearby buildings. Reflections appear before her in the dim light; first her, then the room, then him asleep on the couch. He still snores.

Later they'll talk more. 

Her shadow is cast in morning solitude.  A small figure, a sleeping city, a night she knows she'll never forget.

And she no longer wants to rebel, because for some reason she's certain that all she wants is right there with her. In that far off place many light years away maybe he'll hold her, but for now she's content to know that they really are okay. 

She smiles and waits. 


End file.
